Page 19 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“Not too bad. The roads get busier every year, of course.”
“Of course. Are you having coffee?”
“Yes. Your girl’s bringing it out to us.”
He nodded, smiling. “I’ll join you, if I may.”
“Of course.”
They settled at one of the white-painted bistro tables. George sighed contentedly as he glanced around. “It’s good to see the old place still going. I was just saying to Beryl, I bet it’s seen some things in its time.”
“Ah, yes indeed. It has quite a history. This main part was built in 1862, you know.”
“Oh yes?”
“It was built by a man called Edmund Bould, from Staffordshire. He owned an iron smelting works, and was pretty well-to-do. He built it as a summer retreat for his family, away from all the smog of the Midlands.”
When he’d first come to work here, all those years ago, he’d been fascinated by the hotel and had spent time tracing its history, but he hadn’t really thought about it much until the prospect of seeing it demolished had brought it to mind.
“He was from the Midlands, eh? I don’t blame him,” George remarked. “Who wouldn’t want a summer retreat down here?”
Jess brought out their coffees, and Mike thanked her with a smile. “You’ve met our Jessica, haven’t you?” he said to the guests.
“Oh yes, of course.” They both smiled up at her. “She booked us in.”
“She’s quite new. Her sister lives just round the corner, and she’s come down to visit for a while. Which was lucky for us. We have a few university students come down over the summer to work here, but of course they’ve gone now. She’s fitted in very nicely.”
Beryl was stirring a generous swirl of cream and two of the paper sachets of sugar into her coffee. “Why did this Edmund choose Sturcombe for his house?” she asked. “Wasn’t it an awfully long journey from Staffordshire in those days?”
“Ah, well, the railways made a big difference, you see. By the 1850s there was a regular train service coming down to Plymouth. It would only take a few hours, instead of days by the old stage coaches. We even had our own train station then. Sadly, it’s been closed for many years now.”
He stirred his own coffee before continuing.
“I believe his wife chose the location. She was from Plymouth. He met her when he was trading with the dockyard at Devonport, supplying iron for the new iron-hulled ships. Ah . . . I hope I’m not boring you?”
“Not at all,” Beryl insisted. “It’s really interesting. Did Edmund and his wife have any children?”
“They had three girls and two boys, but the boys both died in infancy.”
“Oh . . . That’s sad.”
“The daughters all married, and rarely came down here.” Encouraged by their interest, he plunged on with the story. “The old house began to fall into disrepair. Then in the First World War it was requisitioned by the War Office as a recuperation centre for soldiers who’d been gassed in the trenches. That was when they built the extra wings — they needed more accommodation.”
“Didn’t I hear that at one time it was a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients?” George asked.
“That’s right. They didn’t have any antibiotics then for treatment, so it was all about sunshine and fresh air and exercise. That was when they added the conservatory and the indoor swimming pool.”
“Oh, yes. I remember the swimming pool. We haven’t used it for years. Is it still there?”
Mike smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it’s closed. It’s rather too expensive to heat.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“Anyway, by the 1930s the tuberculosis cases were beginning to decline, with better general health and hygiene standards. The sanatorium was closed in 1934. That was when the place was first opened as a hotel . . .”
“Mike? I’m sorry to bother you.” Jessica had reappeared in the doorway. “The council are on the phone. Something about the potholes on Church Road?”
“Oh . . . Yes, thank you, my dear. If you’ll excuse me,” he added to the Wrights, “I need to take this call.”
